


Home on the Range

by AtomicSpaceAce



Series: Songs of the Mojave [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, Gender Neutral Courier - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Music, Post-Canon, Retrospective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 14:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6288364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicSpaceAce/pseuds/AtomicSpaceAce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so the Courier pressed on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home on the Range

**Author's Note:**

> A re-post from my old fanfiction account, Deirdre Jubilee.

By this point, the Courier had given up on dying.  
  
New Vegas had been tamed, the West had been won, and the spirit of adventure had died a quiet, lonely death in the hospital room of ancient history. The world was rebuilding, reforming, and there was no place for the Courier, True Mortal of the Mojave, in it – not this time.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


* * *

  
  
As the Courier walked past the Goodsprings Cemetery and into the hills beyond, there was a moment of silence for that first death, that beautiful rebirth. For a moment, there was nostalgia for enemies long dead, battles long won, couriers long dug up. But that was fleeting.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


* * *

  
  
The Radscorpions that lived in the valley below the cemetery had long been exterminated by the Courier and kept at bay so that tourists from New Vegas could visit the place where the mysterious messenger of the Mojave rose from the grave. It was safer now, quieter perhaps.

The Courier stopped at the crest of the opposite hill and looked back towards the cemetery, dark and quiet in the fleeting Nevada sunset. It was not the same place it had been all those many years ago.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


  
  
Down the mountain, the Courier made their way to the town of Bonnie Springs – rebuilt after the Vipers were wiped out and the walls were fortified against the rare Cazadors and Deathclaws that survived the mass extermination campaigns. There would be food and shelter there, but the Courier still saw it as a burnt-out shell – testament to the dangers of the Wastes. The Courier made a neat campfire on a nearby ridge and slept.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


  
  
The Courier strode into Red Rock Canyon, laying down a sign of respect for the Great Khans who had once inhabited it. They had splintered into smaller warring bands of bandits or been fully integrated into the new Mojave society. The Courier ran a finger along the rock paintings, but could not stay.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


* * *

  
  
The Courier stalked through the outskirts of New Vegas and camped in the old lairs of the Fiends. There were still signs of them about – broken and buried syringes, empty packages of Mentats, and the faintest smell of blood on the wind. All of these things made the Courier stay a little longer, but it was not to last.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

  
  
That night the Courier made the full loop around Vegas and slept under the stars – watching in silence as the bright lights of the casinos and the growing glare from the other towns of the wastes slowly blotted out the sky as the Courier once remembered it. The stars were as pale as a corpse.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.

  
  
The 1-88 regained its Old World glory – full of traders, travelers, tourists. The Courier kept to walking the road at night, although that didn't stop the occasional passerby's face from lighting up in awe when they saw a Mojave legend.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

  
  
As the Dino-Dee-Lite Gift Store's trademark tyrannosaurus rose up above the horizon, the Courier took an abrupt turn towards the mountains. The night was lit up by spotlights displaying the green dinosaur protector in all of his glory.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


* * *

  
  
Nipton, still quietly rebuilding, sat nestled in the hills - safe and comfortable. The Courier strode past, collar high and hat low. At this distance, the Mojave Outpost monuments loomed over the horizon, which was as close as the Courier could get to visiting the defunct divide between civilization and the wastes.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.

* * *

  
It took the Courier four days to get to Primm and only two hours to leave it. It prospered under the presence of the law and grew to become an important trading hub for the entire Mojave. While tempted to visit the Mojave Express office a final time, the constant whirring of machinery and occasional guitar riff in the Courier's ears would not allow it.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.  
  


* * *

  
  
The Courier looked upon Goodsprings impassively. The town where it all began grew into a tourist attraction. The General Store sold Courier memorabilia. Prospector Salon regaled travelers in mystical tales in which the Courier single handedly brought down the Powder Gangers, in which the Courier spent three days out in the wilderness and  
returned with a sack full of Cazador eggs, in which the Courier was a divine creature of infinite wit, luck, and skill. Even Victor's old house – where the Courier had resided before leaving for Primm and parts unknown – had been converted into a Courier museum of sorts, memorializing every item of value the Courier had supposedly ever owned.  
From the gold bars stolen from deep within the mysterious Sierra Madre Casino, to the helmet of a disorderly tribal leader from the canyons of Zion, to the strange Transportalponder which could send an unsuspecting person into the dangerous crater of Big Mountain, and to the framed duster that the Courier had reportedly received after winning the Battle of the Divide from a terrifying dark doppelganger. None of this piqued the Courier's interest. It was a life already lived.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.

  
  
In the wee small hours of the morning, the Courier made the trek to the Goodsprings Cemetery one last time. Maria felt heavy as the hour of truth fast approached. With shaking hands, two 9 mm rounds – made from two shell casings stolen from Doc Mitchell's operating table so long ago – slid into place. There wouldn't be a need for the second bullet but nostalgia blinds us all. A neatly dug grave was at the ready, lovingly restored as a tourist attraction.  
  
As the morning sun began to rise, the Courier brought up a clammy hand.  
  
A mouth whispered last words.  
  
A calm finger pulled the trigger.  
  
A body fell halfway into an old grave.  
  
The Wasteland was wild no longer.  
  
So the Courier pressed on.


End file.
